Fleetwood's Vanishing Heritage: A 60s Story

The 1960s brought a whirlwind of change to Fleetwood, a period marked not only by the lamentable loss of its Manx steamers and the railway but also by a profound transformation within the town itself. It was an era that, for many long-standing residents, felt less like progress and more like an unwelcome upheaval. Fleetwood, as they knew it, was undergoing a dramatic metamorphosis, its very fabric being reshaped in ways that stirred both controversy and deep-seated nostalgia.

The Unravelling of Old Fleetwood: Streets and Communities Lost

Much to the palpable disgust of countless residents, Fleetwood Council embarked on a controversial decision: the demolition of many of the town's most cherished and historically significant streets. These were not merely thoroughfares; they were the very arteries of old Fleetwood, where generations of families had been born, raised, and had forged the bonds of a truly close-knit community. In these intimate neighbourhoods, everyone knew their neighbours, and life unfolded with a shared sense of belonging that was about to be abruptly shattered.

Families found themselves uprooted, their lives irrevocably altered as they were consigned to new, unfamiliar pastures. The transition was far from smooth, and it’s an understatement to say that not everyone was pleased. Despite fervent petitions and impassioned protests, the wrecking ball swung, claiming iconic streets such as Back Aughton Street, Custom House Lane with its distinctive flat-toppers, Cherry Tree Row, and Elizabeth Street. These venerable areas were cleared to make way for a sprawling car park, serving the bustling market – a practical decision, perhaps, but one that came at a significant emotional cost to the community.

The transformation didn't stop there. On the other side of Adelaide Street, High Street, Flag Street (once known as Cottage Court), and substantial parts of Dock Street, Albert Street, and Warren Street also vanished. Looking back, it often feels as though these changes occurred overnight, a swift and brutal erasure of history. While the process certainly happened with remarkable speed, it was, of course, a phased demolition. It must be acknowledged that many of these older houses were indeed in a state of disrepair. Sadly, as tenants moved out and streets emptied, with only a handful of houses still occupied, vandalism became an increasing problem, a grim prelude to their inevitable demise.

One particularly poignant memory from that time involves a small, handwritten notice found on the back door of a still-occupied house: “Please do no damage.” This simple plea was all the more heart-wrenching when it was discovered that an elderly couple resided within, living in fear as youths gathered outside their home at night. It’s also worth noting that many of these older properties, surprisingly, had never been converted to electricity, relying instead on gas lighting, and very few boasted the luxury of indoor bathrooms or toilets – a stark contrast to modern living standards.

A Glimmer of Revival: The Re-creation of Cherry Tree Row

Amidst the demolition and change, there has been a happier note for one of these lost streets: Cherry Tree Row has been re-created. Today, it stands as a pleasant-looking block of flats, a contemporary echo of its past. One can't help but feel that Mr. Joe Walmsley, the visionary who built the original Cherry Tree Row, would have approved of this modern incarnation. It’s astonishing how many people recall living there, or have family ties to the street, often recounting how their parents or grandparents paid a mere 6d (six and a half pence) or 9d (5p) a week in rent – a sum almost unimaginable today.

An intriguing anecdote about Cherry Tree Row's origins reveals Mr. Walmsley’s initial grander vision. According to the late Cyril Walmsley, his grandfather, Joe, never originally intended to build a row of houses. His ambition was to construct a magnificent hotel, to be named “The Cherry Tree Hotel,” presumably adorned with cherry trees at its entrance. Plans were meticulously drawn up, but fate intervened. Before construction could commence, Queens Terrace was erected, effectively blocking the stunning bay view that Mr. Walmsley had envisioned for his hotel. At the eleventh hour, he pivoted his plans, opting instead for a row of houses, which he named Cherry Tree Row. Curiously, despite the name, it seems no cherry trees were ever planted there.

Behind Closed Doors: Sanitation and Innovation

Mr. Joe Walmsley was truly an exceptional individual, possessing a remarkably inventive mind that was, in many ways, ahead of his time. As a master plumber, his ingenuity extended beyond architecture. One of his notable inventions was a revolutionary type of lavatory basin, which he christened the “Tippler.” This clever device featured a pan on a chain that, once filled, would “tipple” over, discharging its contents into a receiving bowl of water. The design was intended to be less odorous and significantly more hygienic than existing systems. Cyril Walmsley even claimed that one such Tippler was supplied to Queen Victoria herself. While this cannot be definitively verified, given the Queen and Prince Albert’s fascination with new inventions, it’s certainly plausible. In fact, the core idea behind the Tippler was later, somewhat controversially, adopted and marketed by an enterprising firm, enjoying a period of considerable popularity.

It’s a stark reminder of how much things have changed when one considers the common sanitation practices of not so long ago. Many will remember the days when virtually every household had a privy situated at the bottom of the yard. The concept of modern toilet paper was a distant dream; instead, newspapers, meticulously cut into nine-inch squares, would be hung on a piece of string on the inside of the privy door – often just out of convenient reach! This was long before the Civil Service introduced Bronco, or Andrex conceptualised its iconic puppy dogs. Pre-war, there was even a medicated toilet roll called Izal, with a unique slogan printed on each leaf: “Izal for the throat,” “Izal for the hands,” “Izal for the feet,” and so on. More than one frustrated user reportedly went through an entire roll without finding the specific piece they desired!

Speaking of privies, a legendary tale from Warren Street perfectly encapsulates the era’s unique charm and dangers. It concerns an old skipper who lived there with his daughter and son-in-law. The old fellow had a hearty appetite, particularly for his breakfast of sausages, bacon, and eggs. Afterwards, his routine was set: a trip to the privy at the bottom of the yard, pipe in hand, to attend to essential duties and catch up on the previous day’s Gazette.

One evening, his daughter, who worked at the prawn house and was accustomed to early starts, left her husband’s oil-stained overalls to soak overnight in a bucket of benzene. Early the next morning, before heading to work, she poured the benzene down the privy, washed the overalls, and hung them out to dry in the back street. Unbeknownst to her, the old skipper followed his usual routine. He entered the privy, lit his pipe, and, with a fateful flick, dropped the still-lit match into the receptacle. A thunderous explosion ripped through the quiet morning. His daughter, startled, looked up from pegging out the washing just in time to witness the privy roof sail gracefully over the wall into the back street, immediately followed by her father, pipe still clutched firmly in his mouth. Landing at his daughter’s feet, he looked up at her in utter astonishment and famously exclaimed, “Hell’s bells, where did those sausages come from?”

The Heart of Commerce: Church Street Memories

Many residents undoubtedly watched with a sense of profound sadness as Church Street, once Fleetwood’s bustling main shopping thoroughfare, gradually declined. In its heyday, it was a vibrant hub, teeming with shops bearing the names of well-known firms from yesteryear. Right up until its demolition, the street retained its charming old gas lamps, complete with a bar near the top. This bar was a particular favourite among children lucky enough to possess a rope, which could be slung over it and used to swing around the lamp – a simple yet exhilarating form of entertainment in an age before dedicated playgrounds. However, woe betide any child caught by the local bobby! In those days, a police officer wouldn't hesitate to deliver a swift clout if he deemed you to be misbehaving. Complaining to your parents about police trouble would likely earn you another clip around the ear for being naughty, so children quickly learned to respect the bobby and keep out of his way.

Life for children wasn't always easy. Without playgrounds, swings, or slides, the streets themselves became their playgrounds. Each season brought its own array of street games: hoops, whip and top, skipping ropes, hop-scotch, marbles, conkers… the list was endless. Crucially, with virtually no traffic on the roads, children could play with a degree of safety that is unimaginable today.

Mr. Garnett, a local grocer, once recounted a memorable story about Church Street and his uncle’s grocery shop there during its peak. In those days, shops remained open late on Friday and Saturday evenings. With no refrigerators or freezers, every perishable item had to be sold before closing on Saturday. This led to a fascinating shopping dynamic: thrifty housewives would deliberately do their shopping as late as possible on Saturday evenings. As the evening wore on, prices would be drastically reduced, with shopkeepers selling their meat and vegetables at knock-down rates rather than having to discard them. This created a lively, competitive atmosphere as shoppers vied for the best late-night bargains.

It was customary for all the shops to display their wares on stalls, and shoppers would walk down the middle of the road, moving between the stalls on either side. However, the shopkeepers soon noticed a problem: children would cunningly creep under the stalls, slipping a hand up over the edge to pilfer whatever they could reach. After all, if a child returned home with a piece of ham, beef, or a cauliflower, what hard-up mother would scold them for it? But the traders were losing a significant amount of stock to these thefts and eventually lodged a complaint with the police.

The following Saturday, there was no sign of the law until 9 pm. Then, two burly bobbies appeared, one at each end of Church Street. They began to walk towards each other, systematically looking under every trestle table. Any youngster they found who was not accompanied by an adult received a thorough shaking and a stern warning: “Hop it and don’t let me catch you here again!” Needless to say, the would-be thieves vanished as quickly as their legs could carry them. Apparently, the shopkeepers experienced little to no trouble after that for a very long time – a classic example of what might be termed Willie Whitelaw’s swift sharp shock, and evidently, very effective.

Today, the new houses in Church Street have undeniably improved the street's appearance. Yet, it takes a moment to pinpoint what feels subtly amiss: there are no chimneys. Even some of the old alleys and back streets that have survived have undergone renovation, and for some, including myself, they have lost much of their original attraction and character.

The Price of Progress: Lost Charms

Adelaide Court is one such example. Once home to the first Mr. Preston, who arrived in Fleetwood in the town's early days and established a business as an ironmonger, painter, and decorator, it held a unique charm. He built three very fine houses in Adelaide Court, with an orchard adjoining them. In this orchard, a pump provided a vital water source in the days before mains water reached the town. Today, the Midland Bank stands where Preston Orchard once was, and the quaint courtyard itself is now occupied by a firm of funeral directors. While I must concede that the court now appears very smart and clean, it feels, perhaps, a little too modern, lacking the rustic charm of its past.

I also find myself missing the old ornate street lamps. While the modern lamps undoubtedly provide more light, they are, by comparison, positively ugly. It’s hard to imagine that in 50 years' time, anyone will wax lyrical about them in the same way that I, and many others, do about the old gas lamps, or even the early electric street lamps. Progress, it seems, sometimes comes at an aesthetic cost.

Tales from the Past: A Ferret in Church

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Rob Addie, a charming man who for many years headed one of the town’s leading solicitor firms. Mr. Addie possesses a wonderful sense of humour and boasts a noble lineage, being related to at least three very old Fleetwood families: the Carsons, the Addies, and the Drummonds. He shared an amusing anecdote about his father and his father’s brother, Clive.

When they were young lads, the two brothers were avid enthusiasts of shooting. In those days, the countryside around Fleetwood, particularly Poulton Road (which was then practically rural), teemed with hares, rabbits, and even pheasants (Pheasant’s Wood in Thornton was aptly named). Sunday mornings often found them up early, eager to head out and see what they could catch. However, their father, a strict disciplinarian and devout churchgoer, had impressed upon them the illegality of shooting game on Sundays.

Undaunted, the lads reasoned among themselves that hunting with their ferret wouldn't count as shooting, and therefore, could be considered perfectly legal. Off they went with their ferret, so engrossed in their pursuit that they almost lost track of time. Suddenly realising how late it was, they had to run to make it in time for morning service at the Congregation Church in Lord Street – for they dared not be late and incur their father’s wrath. Upon their arrival, unable to take the ferret home, one of the lads discreetly slipped it into his pocket, hoping no one would notice. All proceeded smoothly until the ferret, growing bored, decided to explore its surroundings. It slipped unnoticed from the boy’s pocket and, much to the lads’ blissful ignorance (as they continued singing hymns), made its way onto the laps of some of the ladies sitting behind them. What followed was an uproar as the good ladies of the congregation began to have the vapours, fainting at the sight of the strange, fearsome creature sniffing at them, likely convinced they were about to be attacked and eaten on the spot. The precise outcome is not recorded, but one can be sure the story provided endless amusement for the men of Fleetwood for many weeks thereafter.

Fleetwood Then and Now: A Snapshot

Frequently Asked Questions About Old Fleetwood

Q: Why were so many old streets in Fleetwood demolished in the 1960s?
A: The Fleetwood Council made the decision to demolish many of the older streets, partly due to the poor condition of some houses (lacking modern amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing) and to make way for new developments, such as a large car park for the market.

Q: Which specific streets were lost during this period of demolition?
A: Streets like Back Aughton Street, Custom House Lane, Cherry Tree Row (original), Elizabeth Street, High Street, Flag Street, parts of Dock Street, Albert Street, and Warren Street were among those that disappeared.

Q: How did the demolitions affect the residents and the community?
A: The demolitions had a significant impact, uprooting long-standing families and breaking up close-knit communities where neighbours knew each other well. Many residents were unhappy and protested the changes, feeling a deep sense of loss for their homes and way of life.

Q: What was the "Tippler" invention, and who created it?
A: The "Tippler" was a new type of lavatory basin invented by Mr. Joe Walmsley, a master plumber. It featured a pan that would "tipple" over to discharge its contents, designed to be more hygienic and less odorous than previous systems.

Q: What was shopping like on Church Street in its heyday?
A: Church Street was Fleetwood's main shopping street, bustling with shops. Due to the lack of refrigeration, shopkeepers would significantly reduce prices on perishable goods late on Saturday evenings to sell everything before closing, creating a lively atmosphere for thrifty housewives.

Q: Were there any unique forms of entertainment or social life for children in old Fleetwood?
A: Yes, with no dedicated playgrounds, children played in the streets, engaging in seasonal games like hoops, whip and top, skipping ropes, hop-scotch, marbles, and conkers. The gas lamps also provided a source of fun, with children swinging around them using ropes.

If you want to read more articles similar to Fleetwood's Vanishing Heritage: A 60s Story, you can visit the Automotive category.